Stan the Delivery Man
by inkspire
Summary: The Avengers order takeout. Oh, that poor delivery boy.


Hey guys! Wow, it's been a while since I've published something substantial.

This idea came out of a chat with RedBessRackham a while back, and I finally finished it. Hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

"Bru-u-uce."

He doesn't look up from his book. "What, Tony?"

"It's Game of Thrones night."

"So?"

"_So_, are you going to start making your famous curry or what?"

"We have it every week. And you complain you get indigestion from it every week."

Tony waves a hand. "That's just because it's so good I eat too much."

"I feel like Chinese anyway, if anyone cares," Clint tosses in.

"I could go for some perogies." Nat shrugs.

"I could make something," Steve offers.

"No thanks, Cap, I'd rather eat something with flavour. So that's a no, Bruce?"

Bruce just sighs, and Tony switches his focus to consider Natasha.

"Natasha, what about you? Any Russian delicacies you want to pass on the appreciation for?"

"Sure," Nat smirks. She plunks a bottle of vodka on the coffeetable. "Voilà."

"That hardly counts, that's from _my_ stock." Tony rolls his eyes. Then, heaving a long-suffering sigh, "I _guess_ we could always order in."

"Ever the drama queen," Clint snarks.

"Hey, Pepper wants me to watch my sodium intake."

"Dugan always said my oatmeal was pretty good," Steve grumbles.

"I know a good Chinese place." Bruce shrugs.

"Let's get pizza!" Clint's eyes shine.

"But then we'll have to fight over toppings, and someone always loses out." Tony whines.

"Two pepperoni, two deluxe, one Hawaiian, no olives, no green peppers. Sound good?" Nat's tone is dangerous.

"Yep."

"Me too."

"Totally. Yay pizza."

Tony starts dialing.

"By the way, don't ever try Nat's borscht." Clint stage-whispers. "_Ow!_"

* * *

"Yo, Shunpike! Order up!" Sal barks.

Stan looks up from his phone, sticking it in his back pocket and shuffling over to where Sal's waving a piece of paper.

"200 Park Avenue, five extra large. I promised 'im we'd get there in ten minutes. Think you can do that, kid?"

Stan tilts his head, considering, then nods.

"It's a new customer, so I don't want any screw-ups, y'hear?" Sal raises an eyebrow. "We want these guys to come back. _Catch my drift?_" His expression is pointed, and Stan frowns, looking at the address again.

200 Park Avenue... That's uptown Manhattan, so, rich folks. Got it. He smiles to assure Sal he understands, straps the load securely onto the back of his bike, and waves behind him as he wheels into the alley and into traffic, his bell dinging.

* * *

Oh. 200 Park Avenue. As in, Avengers Tower. Formerly known as Stark Tower.

_Oh._

Stan's jaw is slack as he stands at the base looking up, and up, and _up_. Whoa. Maybe someone is compensating for something? He wheels his bike closer to the set of glass doors, trying to get a glimpse inside.

A throat clears beside him, startling him, and he turns to see a man wearing a black velvet tux and white gloves, looking for all the world like he just stepped out of an old movie. He clears his throat again, eyes darting to Stan's bike, and he reaches to take it, pressing a slip of paper into Stan's hand as he does. "Your ticket, sir."

Stan blinks at the paper stupidly. A ticket? For riding his bike?

The man gives a short sigh, and Stan can tell he's trying to restrain his irritation. "Your _valet_ ticket, sir."

He gawps wordlessly as the man wheels his bike away. Valet service for bikes? He had a feeling this delivery would be one to remember.

Slipping the ticket into his pocket next to his phone, he approaches the daunting mass of towering glass. Shifting the bag of pizza from one hand to the other, he raises a hand and presses up against the glass, trying to peer inside to the entrance. He can only make out the lines of a sweeping ceiling, a couple potted plants, and not much else. Is this even where he's supposed to go? He has no clue what the regular procedure is for visiting the freaking _Avengers Tower_. It never even occurred to him that they ate food like normal people.

Stan wonders if he should call someone - like, is there a servants' entrance he's supposed to go to or something? But then there's movement inside, and Stan sees a heavy-set man with suspicious eyes and a frown coming his way. He comes to a stop right in front of Stan's position, glaring through the glass, and Stan rears back. For a moment neither moves, the guy just narrowing his eyes more and more at Stan until he's staring him down through mere slits, and Stan finally huffs in irritation. Presenting the pizzas so the guy can see the logo on the bag, he hopes it's obvious enough why he's there. After another moment of vicious glaring, the guy relents, jerking his head towards the doors. Heaving a sigh of relief, Stan swings the bag around and shuffles in that direction.

Just after the doors shut with a quiet hiss of air behind him, however, the security dude's all in his face again.

"Whoa, whoa, stop right there, buddy, not so fast now. Where do you think you were going? Tryin' to pull a runner on me? Think you can get past me, eh?" He leans in close, invading Stan's personal space.

Stan shakes his head. Slowly, with no sudden moves to set the guy off more, he digs in his pocket to find the copy of the order, and pushes it in the man's face. That gets him to back off, and Stan can stand upright again.

The guard squints from the receipt to Stan, to the pizzas, and back to the receipt, then settles his glare on Stan's face. "Jarvis," he barks, making Stan jump, "tell the team the pizza's arrived."

"Right away, Happy, Sir." A disembodied voice responds from somewhere near the ceiling.

Stan's eyes widen at the mention of 'team', and he tries to keep the giddy smile off his face as it sinks in all over again. _He's in the lobby of the building where the Avengers live. Complete with robot butler. _

So. Cool.

Security Man sighs, looking exasperated. "I told you not to call me that, Jarvis. Only Mr. Stark and Miss Potts can call me that. It's Security Chief Hogan in front of – " he glares back at Stan, "_outsiders_."

Stan blinks. This guy's name is _Happy?_

"Of course, Security Chief Hogan. I will alert the team."

"Good. You, come with me." Happy gestures gruffly. Stan resists the urge to roll his eyes, and follows dutifully.

Is that a _metal detector?_

* * *

"_Yes_, your shoes! We have a _problem_, buddy?"

Stan's mouth snaps shut, and he shakes his head.

* * *

Disoriented, Stan waits in the inner lobby, beltless, shoeless, and clutching a badge. He's never been frisked within an inch of his life before.

The only thing Stan ever stole was his grandma's lipstick. He was four, and thought it was candy. But he had felt so guilty, that he snuck it back onto her dresser without her knowing. That is the extent of Stan's criminal history. He swears.

So Mr. Not-so-Happy treating him like he's a wanted terrorist? Not warranted _or_ pleasant. He can _still _feel the guy glaring at him. Through the wall.

All this to deliver _five pizzas_.

He only hopes they haven't gone cold.

Now, someone's _finally_ coming to get the pizzas – a lowly staff member presumably – so he can complete the _actual delivery_, and get on with his life. He can't wait to get out of here. This has been far from the coolest thing that's ever happened to him, like he had hoped it would be once realizing who lived here. The pizzas probably aren't even for the actual Avengers. It would be just his luck to go through all that, just to be the pizza guy for Tony Stark's janitorial squad.

And to add to his discomfort, he keeps hearing odd noises from one of the vents in the ceiling. Almost like a scuffling sound? That can't be okay.

Just then, a tall redheaded woman he recognizes from the news as Pepper Potts steps off the elevator, speaking into her phone. Catching sight of Stan, her eyes flick over his somewhat dishevelled appearance and land on the badge in his hand. She sighs.

"Lisa, I'm going to have to call you back, Happy's been harassing civilians again. Fifteen minutes? Thanks." She hangs up and comes over to Stan, shaking her head at his poor socked feet. Raising her eyes to his, Miss Potts smiles apologetically. "I'm so sorry," She glances at the badge, "Stan. Happy can get a little overzealous in his duties. I'll go talk to him and get your shoes back."

Stan swallows and nods after her, a little stunned by her sudden and radiant appearance.

Miss Potts comes back with his shoes and his belt, and he stammers his thanks. Waving him off, she slips Stan a twenty and winks. "Don't tell Tony that I tipped you, and you'll get more. And believe me, Mr. Stark tips _very_ well. Should more than make up for what Happy put you through."

His brain seizes a little. Mr. Stark _himself_...?

Smiling, she pats Stan on the shoulder. "You're a saint to have put up with all of that. I've got to get to a meeting, but I promise Happy will behave himself next time if you make another delivery for us. Have a good day, Stan."

She glides away, and Stan stares after her, feeling warm.

Then he remembers what she said about _Tony freaking Stark's_ imminent arrival, and he realizes he's still clutching his belt and shoes. He scrambles to put them on.

In his haste, he doesn't realize he's trying to jam his right foot into his left shoe, and that's precisely when Mr. Stark arrives.

His hair is impeccably styled into a perfect mess, and he's wearing a worn t-shirt, and jeans covered with black smudges.

Stan blinks. How can someone look so casually put together and yet sloppy at the same time? It's sadly beyond Stan's own fashion capabilities. And so _not_ what he was expecting.

"He's a grown man, Jar, you'd think he could take a little ribbing." Mr. Stark speaks to no one, clearly continuing a conversation he'd been having in the elevator.

"How perfectly juvenile of him." The butler-voice responds, humouring him.

"Psh, exactly." Mr. Stark's eyes light up when he sees Stan and the pizza. "Ah, the food, glorious! Thank you, kind sir." He smiles brilliantly. "Where do I sign?"

Stan hands him the machine wordlessly, feeling silly in his socked feet. He's pretty sure Mr. Stark hasn't even noticed, or maybe he doesn't care.

"Is it good pizza, kid?"

Stan nods. Sal really does make delicious pizza. When it's still hot, at least.

Tony narrows his eyes for a moment, then seems to accept Stan's opinion.

"It's all Bruce's fault we're having pizza on a Sunday, anyway." He rolls his eyes with a huff. "Apparently I hurt his feelings, so he's throwing a tantrum. In his forties. Tsk."

Stan doesn't really know what to make of that – who's Bruce? – so he just nods again.

Tony-freaking-Stark keeps talking. "Jarvis told me Happy roughed you up a little, sorry about that. He takes his job seriously, if you haven't noticed."

Stan's noticed.

"He considers himself our first line of defense, which, he kinda is. Only so far as he can be with a state-of-the-art security system, fully integrated with my genius AI, covering all seventy floors, but hey, he's harmless. Mostly."

Tony hands back the machine and rubs his hands together before accepting the pizza.

Then he starts, as if he's just had a great idea. "Hey, you should join us for a slice! Happy's already proved you're not a security risk, and you're a growing boy, I know you're hungry."

Stan opens his mouth to say he's gotta get back, but Tony barrels over him. "Fine, you're busy, working man, I understand." He heaves a dramatic sigh. "Can't keep everyone happy, but I do try." Jostling the pizza into one hand, Mr. Stark fishes in his pocket, then slaps a bunch of bills into Stan's hand, grinning as Stan sees some of the numbers on the papers. "That should about cover it. And you have my full permission to make a rude gesture at Happy on your way out."

Stan grins back, giddy. He just might do that.

Mr. Stark waves behind him as he manoeuvres into the elevator. "See ya 'round, kid. Oh, and I'd maybe hold onto the badge if I were you. Never know when you might need it." He winks.

Stan waves as the doors close, dizzy at the implication he might actually get to come back here. He looks at the 'tip' in his hand, grin still stretching his cheeks. This day has gotten so much better – and as he counts the bills, his eyes widen. So has his bank account.

He heads out into the main lobby, feeling as though he's in a dream, and Happy's glare can't even do anything to damage his high. He's just about to make good on Mr. Stark's suggestion, when there's a tap on his shoulder, and he jumps. Turning around, his jaw drops. It's the Black Widow. Crap, he didn't even hear her coming.

Her eyebrow arcs gracefully, and there's a hint of a smile. "Do you have any hot sauce, kid?"

It takes a moment for him to realize she asked him a question – _it's actually the Black Widow, she's standing right there_ – and he jumps, grabbing a handful out of a pocket and handing them to her.

"Thanks. Can you believe Stark ran out?" She winks at him, and he smiles goofily as she turns and sashays away.

Yep.

Best day ever.

**-fin-**


End file.
